Page 9 of Double Play

[Declan]

A home series against the Vegas Victors kicks off the Fourth of July weekend in Nashville. With a day game on the official holiday, plus it being a Friday, the city is abuzz with festive energy. Even more so than a typical day full of musical vibes and country music enthusiasts.

Coaching against Vegas brings with it a ball bag of memories about the Baker family, because their father became general manager of the team after I met Isaiah. My best friend and I were roommates during my short college stint in Colorado. The Bakers were Colorado natives, and the move from mountain air to desert stagnation was a bit of a culture shock for Isaiah’s younger sister who was still a teen then. Isaiah was awed by the accomplishments of his dad.

Eventually, Isaiah played for a Triple A team in New Mexico where he was told the hard cold truth no hopeful professional athlete wants to hear—he was good but not good enough for the majors.

Richard Baker resented the fact I’d made it, and his son hadn’t.

How could a poor kid from Arkansas become Rookie of the Year while his kid didn’t even graduate out of the Triple As?

Richard’s ego was something fierce. Not unheard of among professional athletes or coaches. He’s still the general manager for Vegas, but the arrival of the Victors in Nashville brings something less bitter to my city. My best friend is set to visit me.

For his part, Isaiah used his college degree to become a lawyer, and he practices sports law in California now. He’s still a Victors fan. Traitor.

When he contacted me two days ago, announcing this sudden visit, he teased me. “Gotta make sure you’re treatin’ my baby sister well.”

Unfortunately, he doesn’t know that I haven’t treated his sister in any manner that makes me comfortable. The cold freeze between India and me continues, like a permanent rain delay.

For her part, India hasn’t exactly been heartwarming, and I’m still puzzled why, but I read the message as if it was blasted on the Jumbotron. Stay away.

As I’ve had recent months to reflect, and years to look back on, I’m curious if her distance comes from a drunken text I sent her.

Do you love him?

I had no right to ask.

Thirteen years ago, when I’d learned India was marrying some prominent banker in Vegas, who happened to be a major benefactor of the Victors, I had my suspicions.

How could my Wildfire settle? Her confidence and free spirit demanded she continue to rise. While we didn’t talk much that particular weekend, I’d known for years about her ambitious dreams to work in the male-dominated field of sportscasting and make a name for herself among her peers.

She would stand out like a vibrant, youthful flame among stodgy, wooden ancients.

Still, it wasn’t my business if she intended to marry someone. I was happy for her.

I just felt . . . well, it hadn’t mattered what I’d felt.

I’d made my own life altering decisions fourteen years ago and maybe that caused the rift between us. The strike she couldn’t accept. Since I’d never change the choice I made, I guess India and I are what we are.

Opponents without a game.

In Isaiah’s surprise phone call days ago, he also said, “I haven’t been to Nashville in years. I want the star treatment.”

I have no idea what that involves other than nights of debauchery that I am too old to uphold. I don’t live a glamorous lifestyle like my best friend, rubbing elbows with sports’ elite and partying with their counterparts of movie stars and models. I’m still the same old me. Get laid rather infrequently. Lacking the laundry list of conquests many of my contemporaries claim.

When today’s hot July afternoon ends, I’m grateful for the W against Vegas. I even offer a slight smile to India when she interviews me after the game, like a silent victory. My team beat her father’s.

Within forty-five minutes, I exit the locker room after a post-game conference and step into a bear-hug from my best friend. Isaiah is tall and lean, but strong, and he squeezes me like we haven’t seen each other in ages. We haven’t.

“Look at you,” Isaiah steps back, eyeing me up and down and taking in my team attire, proudly sporting black and white with a hint of silver.

“You look”—he pauses to clap—“terrifying.” He holds up his hands, mocking animal claws, and hisses like a rabid raccoon in the chant associated with the Tennessee Terrors.

Nash, the racoon team mascot, looks a little friendlier than Isaiah’s impression.

“Look at me?” I counter, still taking in my best friend. With his nearly jet-black hair and large dark eyes, he could be India’s twin if I didn’t know five years separated them. For the game, he sports shorts and a Vegas Victors jersey. He’s a good older brother, much like my own, whose trademark is being overly protective of his younger sibling despite all of us being in our forties.

As Isaiah steps aside, he points at me while addressing the female version of him who stands slightly behind him.